We'll Always Have Paris
by MooncatX
Summary: Demona/MacBeth - Sequel to Sky's the Limit - Demona is captured by MacBeth. He has hunted her through the centuries, only to be deceived into marrying his nemesis in her human guise. Now he will have his vengeance. The darkest desires burn brightest. Demona will use her most devasting weapon against him. Herself.


We'll Always Have Paris...  
by Mooncatx

 _the Bliss Crimson_

Demona flew through the night sky on unsteady wings. The occasional burst of light below from fireworks still being lit past the midnight hour seemed to mock her with their momentary, cheery sparkles. Humans celebrating in the darkness, staining the night with their colored fire. What did they have to be so happy about? Living in crowded, dirty cities so ridden with crime that not even a clan of gargoyles could make a real dent, and their short pathetic lives were rife with hostility and treachery. Betrayals at every turn... A harsh sob broke through the frozen mask of indifference she tried desperately to maintain, causing her to seek an updraft to throw her azure hued body higher into the atmosphere so that the thin, chilled air could drive the tears from her eyes.

Damn Goliath, and his little human slut. To have caught them mating on the wing, their naked bodies coupling in the night sky where _anyone_ might see... Where she would see.

What they were doing together was absolutely disgusting. For Goliath to rut with that insipid police detective, he might as well be slaking his lust with a beast of the field. Now that she thought of it, Elisa Maza did have some bovine traits. Those big brown cow eyes, and the small udder like breasts that Goliath had suckled on as they rose and fell with the air currents. Demona snarled at the vivid memory. She had known his unnatural love for the humans would lead him into this perversion, but to have to see it with her own eyes...

The crimson maned gargoyle hurtled through the night air, putting as much distance between herself and her one time mate as possible. Somehow she'd pay them back for this outrage. Someday. But for now she just wanted to be as far away from their love play as possible. Lost in her angry misery, Demona wasn't paying any real attention to where she was headed until the silhouette of a familiar, grand estate rose up against the silver backdrop of the moon. Well this was just perfect. She'd flown away from one maddening problem straight into another...

The whistle of parting air was the only warning she had before the weighted net wrapped around her like a shroud, tangling her wings so that she dropped like a stone. Her panther like scream of outrage filled the night air as she hurtled towards the ground below. The sudden jerk as the net was pulled to a stop by it's tether did little to improve Demona's mood. As she felt herself being hauled into the hovering sky vehicle like a catch of fish, she hissed with displeasure.

"Well now, this is a surprise."

The hearty, amused tone of his Scots accent was infuriating.

"Macbeth." she spat his name like a curse, thrashing in the tightly wrapped netting, trying to saw through the steel cables with her talons.

The problem was that she had no leverage. Demona was well and truly wrapped up by her ancient adversary. She glared at the tall, broad shouldered male who towered over her in his personal hovercraft. He had not changed at all since last she'd seen him. The same well weathered look of a mature man, the steel grey of his hair and beard lending an air of experience and strength. All these long centuries, and his bearing was still that of a king.

"Demona." Macbeth's tone was no friendlier as he regarded his unexpected catch.

He'd been working late into the night on his new book, the one he hoped to publish in his persona of medieval scholar Lennox Macduff. But the immortal Scotsman had found himself struggling with a severe case of writer's block. Frustrated, he'd decided to go out for a short night flight to clear the cobwebs from his mind. It had been a terrible shock to see the winged form of his one time ally, and object of his pursuit for almost an millennia. It was only recently that he'd given up his hunt for the red haired vixen whose betrayal had made her his obsession. He'd come to New York to get away from Paris, and the memories of his last ill fated encounter with Demona. Memories of a false love shared with a bewitching beauty named Dominique Destine, and the sham of a wedding that had nearly been his undoing. Macbeth shook his head at the irony, that now, after he'd finally given up chasing her, she falls into his very lap. How the fates must laugh.

"So, are you going to kill me?" Demona's annoyed growl came with a ceasing of futile struggle. She lay limply inside the tangle of net. Idly she considered the possibility that Macbeth really would kill her. Wouldn't that be rich? A thousand years of cat and mouse ended in one inglorious moment of distraction. Damn Goliath and his human leman. This latest indignity was all their fault.

"What do ye mean to be about on my lands, harridan? Planning some new misfortune to visit on humankind in general, or myself in particular?" Macbeth questioned harshly, staring grimly at the newest occupant of his dungeon. His New York residence had been rebuilt, and reinforced since the last battle with Goliath's clan of gargoyles. Whatever the scheming witch was up too, she'd find her style severely cramped by an electrified cell.

"You flatter yourself, old man." scorn dripped from Demona's voice like acid, "You were never important enough to me to seek out in all the long centuries we've been bound. My vengeance against all humans has no room for petty personal retribution against the likes of you."

"Is that so? Then explain Paris." He hadn't meant to bring it up, but there it was, the memory hanging between them like a sword.

"What about it? It was Thailog's plan. I only went along with it because it _was_ rather clever." she tossed the words out with casual amusement, knowing it would stroke Macbeth's fury. Anger clouded the mind, even one as sharp and canny as his. If she made him mad enough, perhaps he'd give her an opening for escape.

Macbeth's eyes narrowed in outrage. "Clever? Is that what ye call seducing me? Clever!? You made a mockery of my feelings, and of the sanctity of marriage. I knew you for a faithless creature, Demona, but that was low, even for one so heartless. You are so careless with the feelings of others, 'tis no wonder you have no one to love but yuirself."

Demona's mocking smile slipped for but a fraction of a second, yet Macbeth caught it.

"What's wrong? Did I strike too close to home? I understand your co-hort in crime, Thailog, betrayed you as you betrayed me. Tell me Demona, when you found he had played your love false, did you think that was _clever_ as well?"

"Shut up." the tone of her voice was venomous.

Pleased to have scored a hit, Macbeth opened his mouth to drive the point home, when he saw the tell tale glitter in his captive's eyes. That was not anger.. Demona turned her head before he could be sure.

"I'm not sorry." The female gargoyle's voice was suspiciously rough, and though he could no longer see her eyes, Macbeth knew he had not been wrong about the shine he'd almost missed. His personal demon had been weeping tonight. He could see the faint streaks on her cheek that were the mark of tears.

"I'm not sorry in the slightest." Demona turned, so that she did not have to look at the gloating Scotsman, "Thailog merely showed me what I knew to be true all along. Love is like a fairy tale. And as a scholar as well as a warrior, Macbeth, you know that real fairy tales are not gentle things with happy endings. Love leads to harm. It always has and it always will. We are both better off without it."

"Sour grapes, Demona?" Macbeth prodded, knowing he should leave well enough alone, but unable to help himself, "Is that the reason you are so bound and determined to destroy the happiness of others? Because ye canna have it for yuirself?"

He could hear the accent of his own voice thicken with each word. His brogue tended to slip out whenever his emotions ran high. As much past as he shared with Demona, it did not surprise him that he could not speak to her without falling into the familiar cadences of the past.

"I'll be happy when the last _human_ is wiped from the face of the planet." she snarled, forgetting herself enough to glare up into the gunmetal grey of Macbeth's eyes.

"Ye've been crying." Macbeth stated, resisting the urge to reach through the steel bars that held Demona prisoner, to tilt her head so that he might see the evidence more clearly.

"And what if I have? What is it to you, Macbeth? When have you ever cared if I were happy, or sad? Even when we were close allies, you never gave such any thought." Demona let the well edged sneer in her voice become evident, "You'd have sooner wondered if your sword had feelings than consider what the gargoyles who fought under your banner thought."

"That's not true." Macbeth replied with more force than he meant. The sting of Demona's words were striking more deeply than she knew. Often times he had wondered if it had been some inattention on his part that had lead to the gargoyles desertion. That he'd somehow missed the signs that would have warned him of their betrayal. Of her betrayal.

"Isn't it? We were tools to you Macbeth! Tools to be used while you needed us, and discarded when the need was past." Demona's voice shivered with the intensity of her emotion. She'd thought the pain over the long ago events that had lead to the break between them had faded. Yet there it was, sharp as ever and cutting just as deep into her heart.

"I don't know what you are talking about! I valued you! I made you my chief advisor! You had no cause to betray me like ye did!" Macbeth's anger and frustration spilled out with the force of centuries worth of build up, "I never understood why you joined my enemy, Canmore. Our enemy. Why did you leave us open to the tragedy that followed, yours as well as mine?

"Why else? Treachery, pure and simple." Demona's eyes flashed with crimson fire, "Your treachery. Or did you think your _chief advisor_ didn't know your plan to sacrifice the gargoyles who won your wars for you to satisfy the English?"

"I never... !" Macbeth sputtered in pure outrage, only to be interrupted by the azure skinned female.

"No? When Brode spoke of casting us aside to win the favor of Canmore's allies, did you denounce his plan? Tell me Macbeth, did you straight away tell him nay? For I heard your son's loud protests, but _none_ so from you!"

"So, ye were eaves dropping. I'd always wondered." Macbeth deflated a bit as old memories stirred, "But apparently not enough, or you would have known I did reject Brode's proposal. I'd not have repaid your loyalty with betrayal. Would you could say the same."

"Liar! Do you think I know not the mind of a leader? To cold bloodedly consider all options? Even if you did not mean to betray immediately, you let the idea play inside your mind. Sooner or later it would have been expedient. Personal feelings would not have stopped you from doing whatever it took to secure your crown Macbeth. Play the wronged hero from now till doomsday, but I was there. I've seen you in moods of mercy, and in actions of cold ruthlessness." Demona's now black eyed gaze locked with the steely grey of Macbeth's. "There is no one in this world or the next who knows you so well as I, _my king_."

Macbeth stood at the foot of the main staircase, staring at the stained glass high above. Fields of blue and burgundy, with traces of green, and in black relief against it all the form of a gargoyle with wings outstretched, flying above a cloaked man. He had commissioned it after their first major victory together, as a symbol of their alliance. When Moray fell, he'd thought it was lost forever. Then, astonishingly, centuries later, he'd found it again, part of and estate for auction at Sothebys. The colors of the glass were just as vivid as he remembered. He'd spared no expense to regain the piece. It was an eternal reminder of _her_. Taking it as an omen, he had it installed in his New York residence. Of all his estates around the world, this was the one he considered home. Here where he could look at the window and renew his dedication to his quest. The hunt to bring down the gargoyle who'd cost him everything he'd held dear.

And now he had her.

The glass began to glow as the sun beyond rose from the horizon. An agonized howl burst from his lips as the pain of another rode him like some fell beast. He'd felt this rending hurt once before... in Paris. From what Goliath had told him amid the ruins of his wedding knight, it was a twice daily occurrence. Hell's teeth, how did Demona stand it? Now that she was his guest he would have ample opportunity to see first hand how she weathered the transformations. Macbeth stooped to pick up the tray of food he'd set aside in anticipation of daybreak. It was simple fare, such as he could prepare on short notice. As once before, he had sent his servants away. Only this time it was not for the looked for happy occasion of a honeymoon. But he'd finally have his time alone with his Dominique, consequences be damned.

"Good morning, wife." he greeted her, setting the tray through a slot of her cage, "I've brought you breakfast."

Even though he'd steeled himself against the moment, when the familiar auburn haired beauty turned to glare at his entry he felt the shock of her regard run through him like a sword. Demona made a passing fine woman. Hair like burnished autumn leaves that ran riot past her shoulders, eyes the green of a jungle cat, and a mouth as red and luscious as a ripe strawberry. He had to grit his teeth against the ache of desire that rushed through him. His knew in his mind that she was a treacherous beast of the night, but his body knew only that she was beautiful, that she was _his_. Nay... Macbeth drove the thought from his mind with a ruthlessness that had seen him through countless battles. She was not his. Not that way. Never that way...

"The condemned prisoner's last meal? How thoughtful." Demona eyed the tray with suspicion, but the growl of her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten in quite a while.

"It's not poisoned, if that's what you think." Macbeth snorted in grim amusement, "Were I wanting you dead, I'd have shot you last night."

"So you've given up on your plan of suicide by murder?" Demona sniffed in disdain, "Why are you keeping me then? Payback? Am I to be your eternal prisoner, as I had planned you to be mine?"

"Hardly. I don't mean to keep you any longer than I have to." Macbeth's tone was curt as he watched his prisoner begin to pick at the food on her plate.

She ate slowly, lingering over each bite with a sensuality he knew was unconscious. He'd noticed it about her the first time they'd shared bread, nearly a thousand years ago. How she'd savored the fresh baked loaves brought to the high table, as they'd planned the strategies that would win him the crown. Now that thought about it, it was how she ate that had caught his attention in Paris, when he first ran into Dominique Destine. He'd just never made the connection between the beautiful young woman he shared haute cuisine with in Parisian cafes, and the female gargoyle whose eating habits had given more than one Moray warrior wood in the night. He had been glad that Gruoch had never caught him staring at Demona the way some of his younger, more impressionable guardsmen did at the occasional late night meal. He'd never have heard the end of it if she had.

"What? Do I have food on my face?"

The annoyance in Demona's voice brought him back from the memories of long ago, and Macbeth realized he'd been caught staring after all.

"Aye, ye do." His gruff reply brought a flash of emerald fire to her eyes. They widened in surprise when he reached through the bars to brush away an imaginary crumb. Her skin was smooth and creamy, soft beneath the roughness of his grazing thumb.

Demona felt her breath catch in her lungs as her captor stroked her cheek. Was that the way of it then? He desired her, even as he had in Paris. She could read it in his eyes, and his touch. But now he knew who she really was. What she really was. A shiver passed through her as he brought his hand beneath her chin, lifted her head up...

"As beautiful as you are deceitful. No wonder you had me so beguiled." His voice was soft, hardly more than a whisper.

She jerked her head away from his grasp, and backed away until she was out of his reach.

"It was so easy to win your attention... your affection." she laughed as she spoke, taunting, "Dominique Destine came from no where and in the space of days you were smitten with her to the point of proposing marriage. You old fool."

The words hit him like a slap. Wincing, Macbeth withdrew from the cage with a mutter, "Yes, an old, old fool."

"Argh...!" Macbeth clutched at the wall as agony seared like flame over his skin.

Demona writhed in pain as she clutched at the bars and pulled with all her strength. Electricity poured through her in incandescent blue arcs, until finally she could stand no more and she fell heavily to the floor of her prison, twitching in the aftermath of the shocks.

"Are ye mad!" Macbeth's hoarse shout rang through the dungeon as he staggered in, eyes wild, "Those bars hold enough electricity to bake an elephant. Do you have some perverse wish to be a crisped briquette?"

"Did that hurt, Macbeth?" Demona's pained chuckle made the fine hair on the back of his neck stand on end, "Think of it as incentive to release me. I grow tired of your hospitality."

"Ye are mad." he growled, "This cage could immobilize a gargoyle, much less your more delicate human form."

"So? It may hurt like hell, but it's not like it will kill me." Demona gingerly pushed herself up to a sitting position, "Not permanently anyway."

"And are ye so fond of pain, then?" Macbeth's disgust was evident as he fished in his pocket for the remote control to the cell.

"Aren't you? You've had me here for months. Morning and night you share the agonies of my transformation. If you aren't getting a charge from it all, why don't you do something about it? Leave. Let me go. Kill me." Demona pushed back the disheveled curls of her auburn mane with a trembling hand, "But do something other than ogling me day in and day out like your favorite zoo specimen."

"Ye used to have more patience than this." Macbeth frowned as he watched her, "And more sense."

"What do you want from me, Macbeth?" she closed her eyes, "Repentance? Is that what you are waiting to see? Shall I pretend to finally see the light? Beg forgiveness for the many sins of my past?"

"I don't want you to pretend." He dialed down the charge on her cell bars, and reached for the locking mechanism, "I want you to realize that it doesn't have to be this way. Your hatred for humanity has made you a cold, empty shell. Let the hatred go, Demona. In all these centuries it's gained you nothing."

"Nothing? Humanity has left me nothing." Demona's green eyes opened to rake her captor with bitter derision, "First my clan, smashed by humans, than my mate, seduced by humans. My hatred is all humanity has left me, Macbeth. It's all I have."

"That wasn't always true. When you were my ally you had... respect." Macbeth opened the cell.

"Some new strategy, Macbeth?" Demona looked at the unlocked exit with suspicion.

"Nay. Yuir free to leave. Don't let the door hit your backside on your way out." Macbeth's sighed in disgust. As experiments went, this had been a wash. What had he hoped to accomplish? He'd thought he'd seen a window of opportunity, but it had been an illusion. Demona was too wedded to her hatred of humanity.

"Just like that? No demands? No exacted promises to leave humanity alone?" Demona's surprise was genuine. Macbeth had gotten soft in his old age. In the past he would not have given in so easily. She had thought it would take several more days of frying herself to get a concession from him.

"Would ye keep such a promise? Better ye leave with some tatter of dignity, and no false words to stain yuir honor further." He left the cell open and turned to go, half expecting an attack for his troubles.

"Macbeth." Demona called after him. She knew it was stupid push further, but some perverse streak in her nature would not allow her to simply leave without asking, "Do you still love me?"

His stiff, frozen back was answer enough. She walked up behind him, her own emotions a confusion within her. He cared for her... It was a madness. It was a weakness. It was worth exploiting. He cared for her..

She laid her hand on his shoulder, and felt an odd shock run through her. In Paris she had thought nothing of touching him. Caresses and soft words of adoration had come easily enough, in her plan to win his love. She had known exactly what he wanted in a woman, and had become everything he wanted in a mate. It had been easy. Too easy.

"How long have you loved me?" the question trembled in the air between them.

"I don't know what you mean." His whisper was rough with surpressed emotion.

"I think you do. It was easy being Dominique Destine, the woman you fell in love with in Paris." she stroked his arm slowly, fascinated by the tremble that belied the strength that resonated from the very fiber of his being, "Easy... because she was not so very different from myself. Softer perhaps, more innocent, but at the heart she and I are the same person you knew a millennia ago."

"Aye." Macbeth turned, the grey of his eyes a rising storm. She lost a moment in his gaze...

"How long have you loved me." she asked again, unable to look away.

He reached out to cup her face once more, and this time she did not jerk away. Even when his lips descended on hers, she did not resist. He kissed her slowly, feeling the sweetness of her surrender as her mouth opened beneath his own, accepting him. Inviting him...

Macbeth pulled away only when need for air threatened to steal his senses. He felt that he'd lost them already. The slightly stunned look in the green eyes staring up at him told him that he wasn't the only one who'd been swept away by madness. His answer was a rough growl of a word as he pulled her to him again.

"Always."

Demona stretched back onto the sheets, watching as Macbeth stripped down to his skin. The silvered hair that dusted his broad chest caught the light when he moved, glitter against the tan of a man who enjoyed working outdoors, shirtless in the summertime. There was a weathered, rangy look to the ancient warrior king, one that centuries had only enhanced. His body had the hardness of a man who was battle fit, and moved with the easy grace of one who battled often, and won. As the last of his clothing fell to the floor, green eyes widened in appreciation. Battle was not the only thing he was fit for.

"Yuir eyes are as large as saucers." Macbeth's brogue thickened as he took in the woman laid out on his bed. She'd already lost her clothes between the dungeon and his bed chamber, and the remains of her jewelry was littered across the floor. The golden trinkets discarded as easily as her inhibitions. The riot of her auburn locks was spread against the pale bedding in a vibrant wash of color. Her sleek body, shamelessly bare, was breath taking. Rich, full curves of breast and hip, and a fine, delicacy of feature, she was a rare beauty. She had the look of some wanton fay creature, as dangerous as she was desirable. Her red lips ripened with kisses, her eyes devouring him with emerald fire...

He wanted to ravish her, flesh and senses, body and soul.

"Something of yours is large as well." Her comment along with an arched brow brought a flush to Macbeth's face.

It was true, he was well endowed, for a man. Yet he had wondered if she'd compare him to the monstrous size of Goliath and somehow find him wanting. But the warm desire in her eyes showed no disappointment. He went to her then, moving onto the bed so that they lay together. The heat of his flesh covering hers, the contact of their skin sending shocks of electricity through his entire body. She moved beneath him, rubbing like a cat against his hardness, drinking in his raw masculinity with every fiber of her own soft female flesh. His breath hissed in his throat as that most male portion of his anatomy found the moist valley between her spreading thighs.

Demona froze for a moment, feeling the tip of Macbeth's iron stiffness rubbing at the entrance of her sex, suddenly aware that this was the point of no return. Reaching down with one hand, she cupped the firm length of him, running his shaft over her palm. The warm flesh filled her hand, and a yearning ache spread through her loins. She wanted him... needed him... guided him into the tightness of her most intimate place. They both cried out as he sank into her in one slow, firm penetration. He filled her completely, to the point of a delicious stretching that was a pleasure on the brink of discomfort.

Macbeth remained within her, not yet daring to move for fear of spilling his seed too soon. As he'd known she'd be, Demona was a glorious fit. The slight harshness of her breathing let him know she felt him deep inside the sweetness of her wet heat. Her green eyes stared up with a glaze of pleasure, and her lips parted for his kiss. The warmth of his tongue dipped into her mouth, stroking deeply as she returned his attention. Her tongue danced against his own, a soft moan moving from her throat to his. His hands dragged over the satin softness of her skin, reaching to cup the softness of one full, rounded breast. His thumb rubbed against the rose velvet bud of her nipple, causing it to swell and harden, aroused by his touch. He began to move then, slowly rocking his length inside her. The sexual friction was a sweet madness, and he felt her tremble with it. He stroked firmly, more insistently, until she squirmed with need, hips rocking to meet his thrust. Lifting his head, he stared into her eyes once more, wanting to see when the first crescendo of pleasure broke through her.

"Macbeth!"

His name on her lips was a benediction. Thrusting hard now, with increasing speed, he felt the walls of her sex tighten even more, her body shuddering around him as ecstasy claimed her in a scream that poured through him like liquid fire. Her legs wrapped around his hips, drawing him hard and deep into her spasming sheath. Demona's breath came in fierce sobs while the rest of her came in repeating waves of milk white rapture.

"Yes, my angel, my demon, my love." Macbeth's words were a mantra as he held to his own pleasure, not giving into the release his body so desperately craved, "Come for me Demona, again and again. Come with me"

And then he allowed himself to join her in a moment that seared their souls.

She shook in the iron clasp of his arms, as if caught by storms winds. Tears streaming down her face while she gave into the pleasure she had denied for centuries. Macbeth held her until the shaking stopped, and then kissed her salt dampened cheeks, following the trail of their wetness to her throat, her breasts, and still downwards...

He awoke at nightfall, vaguely disturbed, sure something was wrong. And then realized that for the first time in months, he was not wracked with the agony of his captive's transformation. Throwing aside the disheveled sheets, he strode through the mansion, naked and furious, searching for some sign of her.

"DEMONA!"

His shout shook the walls with it's force, but there was no reply. She had left while he'd been deep in a sated sleep. Left without a word of acknowledgment of what had passed between them. There was not even a note. Why? Why had she lain with him if she only meant to leave? He'd confessed his love for her. Made love to her...

He could still taste her.

"DEMONAAAAAA!"

Demona flew through the night sky on unsteady wings...


End file.
